


Just a Little Bookstore

by paintedbutton



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cop!Dean, M/M, bookstore owner!cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedbutton/pseuds/paintedbutton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel owns a small second-hand bookstore and is a bit of a bibliophile. Dean's just looking for a birthday present for his brother. That's only the beginning of it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Little Bookstore

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed, all mistakes are my own. I still hope you'll enjoy.

The first time Dean Winchester meets Castiel Novak it … doesn’t go so well. He finds the shop more by accident than anything else, a small bookstore nestled in between a bank and a Starbucks and looking like it doesn’t belong there at all. There’s not much to it, really. A small store window showing an abundance of shelves inside and a sign in neat white font declaring it to be _Novak’s Second-Hand Books_ over the door. If he hadn’t been desperately looking for a birthday present for his giant nerd of a little brother he probably would’ve walked right past it and never thought of it again. As it is he enters the shop almost cautiously. Books … aren’t really Dean’s forte. Sure, he enjoys them as much as the next guy, might even have a taste a bit more extravagant then some, but somehow he still feels small when the bell jingles above his head. The only other person inside is the guy at the register, who seems to be engrossed in whatever it is he’s reading. He doesn’t even look up when Dean sidles up in front of him. Instead he only holds up a finger in warning before Dean can even open his mouth. He swallows and waits as the seconds tick by, busies himself with looking around the shop. It’s not big but far from sparse. There’s about a billion bookshelves, all of them stuffed with books. No, not stuffed, they’re all neatly lined up, even color coordinated. From the guy across from him he can’t garner much either. For now he’s just a sweater vest, a shock of dark hair and a book he’d almost pointedly pulled in front of his face just a moment ago. It’s all very … not him. Dean gets pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of the book snapping shut. When he looks up blue eyes are studying him carefully.

“Umm …” Nice going, Winchester. The guy sighs, one hand absently stroking over the cover of his book. It sounds Russian and vaguely familiar.

“What can I do for you?” Dean blinks, looking away from that hand and back up at the guy. He’s got his head cocked to the side now, like Dean’s an especially interesting specimen.

“Oh, I’m looking for a book for my brother.”

“Which one?”

“I guess … he likes Lovecraft, something like that.” The guy scrutinizes him some more and Dean’s really starting to feel a bit uncomfortable here. He’s stared down his fair share of criminals in his time but somehow right now he feels laid bare.

“Do you have any preferences concerning editions?” Finally the guy’s eyes drift off towards the back of the room, where Dean can only assume what he’s looking for is stored.

“I don’t know man … some paperback would be alright I guess?” And that is apparently exactly the wrong thing to say, because blue eyes snap back to him colored in nothing but disdain. Dean involuntarily shrinks back a little when he’s suddenly faced with a tirade on how the modern paperback is slowly destroying what books should be because they are basically pulp, made only to be consumed and then destroyed. It goes on like that for a while and somewhere down the line Dean must’ve lost all control of his jaw because he’s pretty sure it must be on the floor somewhere. He holds up his hands in defeat and tries his best calming smile.

“Alright, alright, dude I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” The guy kind of blushes a little before disappearing into a corner between the shelves. Dean leaves the store that day a little bit dazed and a lot poorer. At least Sam likes the book.

 

 

The thing is, he had no intention to ever go back to that store or see its owner again. Only when he enters the precinct a few weeks later, Charlie in tow and complaining about the mountain of paper work they’ll have to do, he’s right there at the front desk and saying something about vandalism. From where Dean’s standing the sweater vest is obscured by a tan trench coat that should make him look creepy but somehow doesn’t. Looks kind of cool actually, a bit John Constantine. Dean shakes his head and approaches him and the poor guy that apparently doesn’t know what he’s doing. He shoots them a charming smile.

“How about I take it from here? I’m bored out of my skull anyhow.” Ignoring the grin he receives from Charlie he takes the guy by the arm and steers him into the break room. “You want some coffee?” He receives a frown in response.

“I thought you wanted to take my complaint.”

“Says nowhere that I can’t do both.” A headshake, but the frown has eased. “Alright, something about vandalism, right?”

“Yes. It seems someone decided it was appropriate to graffiti a love note on the window.” Dean can’t help it, something about the way he says it makes him chuckle.

“Never heard of those not working out,” he mumbles and searches for pen and paper. “I’m gonna need your name and the address, a picture if you got one.”

“Castiel Novak. I’d assume you have the address of the store seeing as you’ve been there …”

“You remember that?” There might be a smile on Castiel’s face but Dean can’t quite see.

“I remember everyone that purchases from me. It’s also not every day I subject a costumer to my … opinions.” It startles a laugh out of Dean. “I should perhaps apologize for that. I tend to be a lot more passionate than I should be.”

“No worries, man. So, pictures?”

 

When he enters his office a while later he’s met with Charlie’s very obvious Tell Me Everything look. It’s kind of stupid considering there’s nothing to tell in the first place.

“When did you start hitting on surly strangers at work?” she finally asks with a grin and Dean just shrugs.

“I know him – I mean, not know-know, I know his store – and Ed was looking kinda pitiful behind his desk there. I just thought I’d help out is all.” And it’s the truth. He can be a good person sometimes. Charlie should believe him, why does she look like she doesn’t? Oh wait, she _knows_ him.

“Sure. It has nothing to do with him being just your type.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Oh, you so do.”

 

 

The next time he enters the shop it’s for something that could’ve just as easily been done by mail (Castiel’s whole vandalism thing) and Castiel isn’t alone this time. He’s just carefully wrapping up a book for a redheaded woman but he does give Dean a glance and what might even be called a smile.

“What can I do for you?” he asks when the woman leaves. Dean just gives him the file copies and shrugs in response.

“I was in the area anyway, though I’d just bring ‘em to you.” Castiel nods, gives his thanks and with nothing else to do Dean turns back to the door. His hand is barely on the knob when he’s stopped by Castiel’s words.

“You never told me your name.”

“Huh? Dean. Dean Winchester.” This time Castiel does smile, no doubt about it.

“Have a nice day, Dean.”

“Yeah, you too.”

 

 

Something keeps dragging him to that street. When he has a meeting with his finance consultant (some guy named Adler that still gives Dean the creeps, maybe it’s the crazy not-reaching-his-eyes smile), after which he really needs a cup of coffee and some goddamn sugar he finds Castiel on a ladder cleaning the shop window with a look that could probably smite the grime from the glass if he tried. Dean’s only being friendly when he offers him a coffee, too.

“Not from there,” Castiel replies with a nod towards the Starbucks, “Mine is better.”

“That’s something you’ll have to prove, buddy.” The only response he gets is a solemn nod before Castiel steps down the ladder and leads him into the shop’s small back room. If the front had seemed a bit cramped, the back is even more so with half its space obscured by book packages. It does have a window and a cozy little table with two chairs though. Also there’s a pie on the table, so who the hell even cares? He lets Castiel push him into a chair with a grin, absently drums his fingers on the table until a steamy cup of coffee is placed in front of him. Dean can’t be held responsible for the noises that come out of him when he tries it.

“Dude, that … I take it all back, you are the _God_ of coffee.” If Dean weren’t so busy savoring the coffee he’d probably want to wipe Castiel’s way too smug look off his face. As it is he just shrugs when Cas replies,

“I assume that’s high praise coming from a police man.”

“The highest.”  Much of the rest of the coffee break is spent in silence. To Dean’s surprise it’s not awkward in the least. A lot more companionable than should be expected from two people that barely know each other actually. And when the only response upon hearing Dean proclaim his love for the pie is Castiel smiling Dean decides he doesn’t care what exactly this is, he likes it. He’s almost reluctant to leave when Charlie calls him in on the account of their suspect having been found but a job is a job. Especially when it contains crazed men and disemboweled women.

“Right, I gotta go put the fear of God in some crazy stabber … but, umm, thanks for the coffee, Cas.”

“Why would you be doing that?” He’s got his head cocked to the side again, like there’s something he can’t figure out.

“Cause it’s what you do when you work homicide.”

“I see … I’m sorry, I thought when you took my complaint …”

“Yeah, I … kind of a one-time thing there.” He suddenly feels embarrassed without reason. Scratching the back of his neck he looks around the room. He really should get going. While letting them stew in their own juices for a while can be a good interrogation tactic he won’t get any kudos for the stewing if it happens because he’s late. “Anyway, I gotta get going. I’ll see you around, alright?”

“I’m looking forward to it.” And just like that the awkwardness seems to leave him. He gives Castiel a smile and only when he’s safely in his car does he question where ‘Cas’ suddenly came from.

 

 

Dean’s just here for the coffee. He can’t be expected to taste the most amazing coffee outside of his own (which is really only made to wake him up in the morning, so it’s basically tar) and not come back for more. Plus, Castiel seems happy enough to indulge him every time he comes along.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, the whole hardcover thing is that … you can’t tell me you just own those.” Castiel shakes his head and smiles into his coffee. They don’t talk about books all that much despite being in a book shop, mostly because Dean feels incredibly insecure on the topic, but sometimes his curiosity gets the better of him.

“Mostly I do, but there’s the occasional … I have a bit of a guilty pleasure, a series called _Supernatural_. It’s not very good, but I fear it has charmed me. They’re not even published any other way.”

“So what’s this series of yours about then?” And again Castiel looks down, there’s actually something like a blush creeping up his cheeks.

“Two brothers hunting monsters. They’re joined by an angel later. It’s … not what I usually read.” That explains the blush at least. The books Dean usually sees him with at the very least have a big name on the front.

“Hey, nothing wrong with loving a bit of bad fiction … have I ever told you about _Dr. Sexy_?” It’s almost involuntary that he finds himself laying his own guilty pleasure on the table. Cas just makes him feel strangely comfortable sometimes.

 

 

“Is that a _paperback_ I see?! Cas, I’m shocked!” Dean watches in amusement as Castiel dog-ears ( _dog-ears_ , of his _own_ free will!) the slim paperback he’d been reading and smiles at him.

“Hello, Dean.” He always kind of puts the cover in Dean’s periphery vision, like he’s hoping Dean will say something about one someday. Actually …

“I’ve actually read that guy, Bukowski, kinda like him. A lot.” The response is immediate, a different smile blooming across Castiel’s face, this one private and fond.

“I thought you might have. You don’t ever talk about what you read.” It’s a bit accusatory and Dean can understand that, kind of. He’s friends with a guy that owns a book store after all, shouldn’t they be talking about this all day long?

“Yeah, I … I’m not really the bookish kind. I mean I read, but … you’d love Sam, he gets his head stuck in all these great, big novels …”

“I’d much rather know about you.” He swallows, licks his lips, suddenly nervous. Castiel’s focus rests heavy on his shoulders.

“Well, there’s … I like Vonnegut a lot, I guess. Read “The Road” by this guy recently, I can’t remember his name. Then the Bukowski guy. It’s all … it’s all not really worthy of a leather bound hardcover edition, so …” Castiel is still looking at him and somehow Dean gets caught in his gaze. He never realized how close they usually are but right now it’s pretty obvious. He feels like he could fall forward and land on Castiel’s mouth.

“Maybe I will prove you wrong sometime.”  

 

 

“Cas, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Dean.”

“How do you get by? I mean, there’s almost never anybody here when I come in and this place has gotta be expensive.” Castiel is busying himself with not looking at him. It makes Dean uncomfortable when he does that these days. Six months and he’s grown so used to being in Castiel’s absolute focus that he feels weird when he isn’t.

“It’s not easy, it never was, but lately … even the larger stores are breaking down. I have my regulars that come to me with wishes they know only I could possibly fulfill, but … if the rent should ever go up …” He’s clearly uncomfortable, gnawing at his lower lip and fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. Dean starts feeling sorry he ever asked.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Cas.”

“I hope so.”

“And hey, if they don’t want you here, I’m sure we’ll figure something else out.” He barely notices the ‘we’ until he sees Castiel frown. He almost panics before he remembers himself. Because this is Cas, Cas who doesn’t look surprised when Dean mentions a book he read or wants to discuss it, who gives him recommendations of things he might like cause he knows about a billion more books than Dean, who gently nudges him in the direction of quite a few great American novels he ignored before because he hated them in school, who makes the best coffee Dean ever tasted and always has a fresh pie for him, who doesn’t laugh when Dean comes to him a bit shell-shocked after that cliffhanger in the _Dr. Sexy_ finale, who’s somehow kind of become his best friend. The ‘we’ is absolutely justified in Dean’s book.

“I don’t –”

“We’ll figure something out,” he says again, “if all else fails I can give you my garage.” The quip, at least, gets rewarded by a smile and Dean relaxes. It might not even happen anyway. They’ll figure it out.

 

 

Castiel handles his books like small children. Dean might have watched him a time or ten when he was adding new purchases and he always treats them with the utmost care, makes sure there’s no possibility of any creases or additional damages to the leather that would put them from the careworn into the not-so-precious-anymore category. His slender fingers are gentle, almost caressing. Dean finds himself more than once unwittingly fantasizing about what they would feel like on his skin, caressing in much the same way that Dean’s seen him stroke the books sometimes. He tries to ignore it, mostly because it’s Cas and they’re friends and he might not even swing that way. Plus, Dean doesn’t do relationships. And the thought of losing Cas scares him to hell. The only thing he can do is keep his inappropriate reactions to himself and hope Castiel doesn’t notice.

 

 

“You wanna go out for a beer sometime? We could watch the game or something.” God, it sounds too much like a date. Please, God, don’t let him take it like a date. Please. Castiel frowns at him.

“We see each other almost every other day, Dean.”

“Well yeah, but, I mean, you’re supposed to be working and I’m in between working and I just thought it might be fun. Look, we don’t have to. Forget about it.” Castiel’s hand closing around his wrist stops him from turning tail and leaving. It’s stupid, but the contact calms his nerves almost immediately. Castiel doesn’t usually reach out like that, not with hands.

“I’ve never really been interested in sports. I wouldn’t even know which game you’re talking about.”

“Doesn’t matter, we can just use it as background noise.” He smiles, receives a smile in return. Castiel still hasn’t let go of his wrist.

“I’d like that.”

“Awesome. Let’s say Saturday, the Roadhouse? I can pick you up if you don’t know it.”

“Sounds good.” And just like that he finds himself caught in Castiel’s gaze and just silently looking his fill. Castiel’s fingers are warm and comfortable around his wrist.

 

Dean is a lot more nervous than he should be considering he’s just going out for drinks with a friend. Then again it’s the Roadhouse and it’s _Ellen_ and if she doesn’t like Cas Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do.

“It’s nothing,” he says when Cas asks. _It’s just Ellen is kind of like a mother to me and I’m scared she won’t like you_ is what he should say. But he’s Dean Winchester and he’s never been overly good at communicating. He’s getting over that, slowly, but he can only take it one step at a time and this is too close to his chest. Instead he grips the steering wheel tighter and ignores Castiel’s frown.

 

He shouldn’t have worried, really. Ellen gives Castiel one appraising look, glances at Dean and gives them each a beer. When Castiel compliments her on the interior and later strikes up an easy conversation with Jo Dean feels all tension drain out of him. It’s okay. From the look Castiel gives him he obviously noticed. And he’s suddenly a lot looser as well, as if Dean relaxing cut the strings. The evening increasingly lubricates them and by the end of it Dean can’t remember who won the game, or what game it even was, but he does know that Cas doesn’t know half as many Zeppelin songs as he should. And he knows that they don’t seem to bore of each other easily even when there’s no time limit hanging over their heads. The glances from Ellen and Jo he ignores. He couldn’t begin to figure out what they mean anyway. The fond blue of Cas’ eyes is way more interesting to him right now.

“I should perhaps call a cab,” Castiel finally decides but it sounds rueful. It gives Dean this stupid idea.

“You can just come back to my place. I got a guest room and you’ve got nowhere to be tomorrow anyway, right? We could start on that much needed music education.” He holds his breath until Castiel nods, unsure where the lines lie in this friendship of theirs, relieved that this isn’t one of them. He supports Castiel on the way out and to the car even though he probably doesn’t need to, doesn’t think about how Castiel lets him, and focusses on not crashing them into anything instead of the way Castiel’s shirt has slipped just slightly more than it should, how the lack of light makes his eyes a velvety dark blue. He needs to get over this, he will eventually. But there’s nothing he can do right now.

 

The key finds the lock only on the third try but the momentum swings them inside the hallway without further problems. Castiel is chuckling quietly as he’s trying to get out of his shoes and his trench coat at the same time and the sound kind of catches Dean off guard, enraptures him. He awkwardly clears his throat, steers Castiel up the stairs and into the guest room that is actually Sammy’s room except Sammy is a big-shot lawyer in California now and barely ever has time to visit. The house would normally be too much for a single guy to live in but Dean never had the heart to move out of it. After all, he grew up here after John Winchester finally got himself together enough to stop being nomadic and settled down with his kids. It’s the house where he sat numbly in the living room after he got the news that John had wrapped the Impala around a tree in an attempt to dodge a truck whose driver had not paid attention. It’s the thing he fixed up right along with the Impala when he didn’t know what to do with himself afterwards. It’s his home, plain and simple, and now Castiel is leaning in the doorway to the guest room and blinking at him tiredly.

“Thank you for tonight,” Castiel says and Dean doesn’t even know what he’s being thanked for. Instead he just wordlessly hands Cas one of his shirts to sleep, points him to the bathroom and then pulls himself away before he does something stupid like crawl into bed next to Cas. He’s neither drunk nor sober enough for something stupid anyway.

 

Dean is halfway through breakfast the next morning (it’s closer to noon actually but it’s Sunday so who the hell cares) when Castiel stumbles down the stairs. He’s apparently all soft angles in the morning, eyes dimmed to a light greyish blue and hair sticking all over the place. Dean greets him with a smile and a warm feeling in his belly. He can’t keep Cas away from his record collection afterwards but then again he did promise a comprehensive lesson on Good Music a la Dean Winchester, so he can’t really fault him for it. He does however follow him quickly, watches carefully as Castiel strokes over the covers before picking one up and looking at Dean questioningly. He takes the record from him carefully, places it on the turntable with even more care. It’s an old Blues record, one of those Dean painstakingly hunted down at garage sales and thrift stores. He tells Castiel as much when they’re settled on the couch. Tells him that he bought it from this small hippie chick who might’ve been twenty but also might’ve been sixty and who’d given it into his care to make as many lovely memories as she’d made. He tells him about the first time he played it, too, with a girl whose name he didn’t remember and who’d left him to the music before the record was over. Tells him about the guy that made the record and how amazing he’d been.

When Dean looks back Castiel is staring at him completely enraptured. He swallows, licks his lips and waits for Castiel to speak. When they come Castiel’s words are quiet.

“You always seem so insecure about yourself because you don’t feel the same way about books that I do. You never could. Books, they are my passion. But this … this is yours. I like seeing you so confident in something.”

“Thanks,” he croaks out and averts his eyes again. What else is there to say?

 

They spend most of the day going through records like that, Castiel picking one at random and Dean filling it with stories, with trivia and heart. Sometimes they just listen. He almost feels like a college kid again, here on his warm couch, talking passions and reveling in smiles. Not knowing where this is heading but praying to every deity that might listen that he’s not fucking it up.

 

 

If he’s honest with himself he has to admit he finds it kind of hard to not be around Cas after their impromptu and slightly hung over music lessons. It’s just that feeling he gets in his gut, that he should be somewhere else, maybe with the dude named after some really obscure angel (he looked it up, so what?). It garners him no small amount of fond ridicule from his partner.

“You’re gonna tell me before you stand under his window with a boom box though, right?”

“Not gonna happen,” Dean sighs exasperatedly and leans back in his chair to look at Charlie. They’ve been over this a time or ten. He’s not in love with Cas. He’s _not_. He might have a little bit of a crush but he’s confident it’ll go away in time. River in Egypt and all that. “He probably wouldn’t get the reference anyway.” Charlie makes a triumphant face.

“You thought about it!” she crows, “You are so obvious, Dean.”

“You wanna stop this while you’re ahead or should we talk about Gilda?” Watching her blush is immensely satisfying at the moment.

“Point taken.”

“Anyway, I promised Cas I’d come round during lunch. You want anything?”

“Nah, just enjoy your totally-not-a-lunch-date.” Charlie is definitely evil and getting too much enjoyment out of his teenage girl phase. Dean can’t even blame her for it. In her stead he’d do the same. Funnily enough that’s why they work. With an eye-roll he grabs his coat and tries to ignore the warm feeling he gets.

 

When he gets there the shop seems deserted. Which, Dean knows by now, means Cas is somewhere between the shelves and probably has his nose in a book. It’s not so hard to find him once you’ve figured it out, kind of a really strange game of Marco Polo. Today he’s tucked in the corner in the back, safe from every wandering eye and thoughtfully fingering the back of a particular tome. He inclines his head in greeting when Dean sits down next to him.

“Isn’t that one yours?” Castiel shakes his head in response but he looks at it in longing.

“I occasionally take it for myself but … it’s for selling, Dean. I couldn’t possibly just take one of my books.”

“You love it though,” Dean says and he knows it’s not a lie. Of all the books Dean has seen him with this one crops up most often. And it is a gorgeous edition, bound in red leather and with a simple gold key emblazoned on the top. There’s two more, he knows, sitting right next to Castiel, to make up _The Brothers Karamazov_. To be honest, Dean hasn’t got a clue what it is about but it doesn’t really matter. He watches Castiel stroke over the book once again before giving up. “How much?”

“What?”

“How much are they?”

“I … fifty Dollars each, but Dean –” Okay, the price would usually make him swallow but Castiel has an adorably confused and flustered look on his face and it’s not like Dean doesn’t regularly blow money on fixing up his car anyway.

“I’ll take them.”

“Dean-”

“You said they’re for sale, Cas. Sell them to me.” Castiel looks like he’s about to protest again, so Dean just snags the books from him and stands up to head to the register. He’s almost relieved when Castiel follows silently.

“… You’re certain?” he asks again when they’re looking at each other over the counter. Dean smiles.

“Yeah. You see, they’re for a friend of mine. He really loves them and I think getting them for him is a good idea.” The way Castiel takes his card might almost be called stoic were it not for the storm of emotions in those blue eyes, half of which he couldn’t even put a name to if pressed. It’s a bit overwhelming, because, well, it’s just a few books. But he does feel surprisingly good when Castiel catches his wrist and whispers – fucking whispers – “Thank you”. Dean shrugs but doesn’t break their gaze. Instead he gives a warm smile.

“Call it an early Christmas present, okay? I’d have gotten you something anyway. At least this way I know you’ll like it.”

“I do.” The silence falling over them is as far from awkward as it could possibly get. It’s like a warm blanket draping itself over them and shielding them from the outside world. And if Dean wants to kiss Castiel really, really badly right now … well, he almost feels as if in this moment it’d be okay. Except that is when Castiel lets go of his wrist.

“I _have_ been meaning to ask you what your plans are for the holidays,” Castiel almost awkwardly intones. He’s not looking at Dean, just the books lying between them. Dean blinks, tries to get with the program here even though he’d really like to go back and finish that train of thought.

“Oh, umm, nothing much. Sam and his fiancé are coming an’ we’ll just do the whole quiet family Christmas thing. Why?”

“I see. I should have guessed.” He frowns, tips his head to the side but Castiel is still not looking at him.

“You can come over if you want.” That gets his eyes to snap up and lock back onto Dean’s. It makes Dean almost relieved. Things are always better when Castiel’s looking at you.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Well, what’re _you_ doing?”

“My brother won’t be able to make it, I’m afraid. I’ll be here.” Now that just won’t do. It’s goddamn _Christmas_. Nobody should be alone on Christmas.

“You’re coming.”

“Dean …” And again with the objections. Dean shushes him with a look.

“Look, I know you don’t know Sam but … Ellen and Jo will be there, too. And, as far as I’m concerned you’re part of this family … if you want to be. So … come?” Castiel looks almost relieved. It makes Dean feel irrationally proud of himself once again. Castiel’s lips quirk up in response.

“I’d like that, yes.”

“Awesome, that’s … good. So, lunch?”

“Of course, Dean.” The eye roll he receives in response doesn’t do anything to lessen the warm feeling spreading through him. Nothing at all. Dean is so screwed.

 

 

 

Dean has never told Sam about Cas. Well, not _never_ , but never in very many words. He’d tried but he hadn’t even known where to begin. Instead he’d told Sam about a guy he’s sort-of friends with. Never the important bits. The ones where Castiel always seems to know what he’s thinking or the ones where those private barely-there smiles make something inside him flutter. Never all of the girly stuff sometimes going through his head or how he finds himself wanting the words to describe Cas in every little detail. It’s just … he can’t. Friend works, even with all the little things where it doesn’t cover their relationship at all.

 

Never, in all of their acquaintance, has Dean seen Castiel this nervous. When Dean opens the door for him he’s awkwardly playing with the hem of his trench coat, his hair ruffled in the way that indicates he’s been repeatedly dragging a hand through it. He’s also two hours early, which makes him three hours early for Sam’s arrival. All in all, it’s rather unexpected. Dean reacts accordingly.

“Umm …”

“I thought you might want help, perhaps,” Castiel says, fingers still twitching. Dean grins in response and steps away from the door.

“Not really but come on in anyway.” He’s in for another surprise after Castiel has freed himself of the trench coat. And, _damn_ , is it a good one. He’s only ever known Castiel in clothes that seem about two sizes too wide for his frame. Today he’s traded those in in favor of a tight dark blue button-up and a pair of equally fitting slacks. The shirt’s buttoned up all the way but there’s no tie to be seen. It’s actually … the guy’s almost naked for his standards (Dean would know, he hardly ever wears less than two to three layers). It’d have Dean salivating on the floor were it not for the fact that Castiel looks supremely stiff and uncomfortable. So Dean does the only logical thing he can think of. He steps forward, his hands going to the topmost buttons of the shirt before his brain even has the possibility to kick in. When it does his fingers freeze. They’re way to close, Dean is unbuttoning Castiel’s _shirt,_ and this is sending all the wrong (right) signals. The color of the shirt brings out Castiel’s eyes even more. Eyes that are currently boring into Dean’s.

“Just … relax, dude,” Dean tells the miniscule space between them while his heart is beating a samba. He doesn’t even know which one of them he’s talking to anymore. When Castiel takes a breath Dean almost falls forward. Some part of him wants to.

“I … this is your family, Dean. I want your brother to like me.” Dean can almost taste the words what with all the shared breath between them. He kind of wants to kiss the worry out of Castiel’s mind. It feels appropriate considering they’re having a decidedly relationshippy kind of moment here.

“Come on, Ellen likes you, so does Jo. Even Bobby generally accepts your existence. If Sam doesn’t like you we’ll damn well force him to.” And there’s that smile he loves so much.

“Why would you –” Finally (too soon) Dean takes a step back and shrugs.

“I told you, man, you’re family. Now come on, if you’re here you might as well make me a cup of coffee while I clean shit up.” Castiel disappears into the kitchen without another word but his shoulders have lost their stiffness. Feeling accomplished Dean turns back to the task at hand of making his living room actually livable.

 

Things go well enough. Sam and Jess knock on the door as punctual as ever and, following the mandatory introductions, things are awkward for about five minutes before Ellen and Jo announce themselves by having a fight directly outside. The awkwardness kind of gets lost then in the process of hugs and catching up and _Sam Winchester, I’m not your mother but you damn well could call a bit more often_. Dean feels his brother’s eyes following him around for the rest of the night until he’s finally grabbed Cas and dragged him to the cot in his bedroom for lack of other sleeping spaces though. There’s a talk coming, he can just feel it. Doesn’t mean he wants to have it. Especially because he knows what it’s going to be about. Cas snuffles in his sleep and Dean sighs, closing his eyes and pointedly _not_ thinking about inviting him into the (much more comfortable) bed instead.

 

Much as he loves Castiel’s coffee, Dean does very much enjoy a cup of his own black as tar concoction in the mornings. Which isn’t exactly a problem considering Cas is still soundly sleeping in the cot, or was when Dean left him. Sam definitely doesn’t agree on the coffee though since he dumps about a ton of sugar in and still grimaces when he takes a sip. The kitchen is quiet, almost serene even though it’s not exactly early. Dean wholeheartedly sinks into it. It’s too seldom that he can enjoy a quiet morning with his little brother these days, seeing as he lives way too far away.

“So … Cas.” Apparently he’s not supposed to have it when Sam is there either. Dean almost reluctantly looks up from his coffee and cocks a questioning brow.

“What about him?”

“He’s … nice. A bit quiet I guess.”

“And?” There’s no point in telling Sam that Castiel isn’t always the quiet type.

“I just … he’s not exactly the kind of person you usually hang out with, is he?”

“So?” He manages not to act overly defensive even though he feels his hackles rising. He can’t help the part of himself that occasionally wants to curl protectively around Castiel and hiss at anything that tries to hurt him. It’s kind of in his nature to be protective of the people he cares about. Mostly he keeps it subdued because Cas might punch him if he ever found out. He’s been known to fight his own battles.

“I’m not saying it’s bad. I’m just … trying to understand. What he is to you.” Ducking his head might be exactly the wrong course of action but Dean can’t help it. He’s so far from admitting the way he feels about Cas to _himself_ that confessing to his brother actually seems like an impossible task. Sam seems to get it anyhow, that’s just the relationship they have.

“Right,” he says and turns back to his coffee.

“That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say? Having Jess, it’s … it’s the best thing that ever happened to me. If you can have that … I want you to be happy, Dean.”

“We’re not –”

“Okay.” And that’s the end of it. Sam has a slight smile on his face and despite not actually having said anything Dean feels somewhere between mortified and elevated. For lack of something better to do he goes back to his coffee and tries not to let his smile get too big when Cas stumbles into the kitchen blinking blearily and having the worst bedhead known to man. He fails spectacularly but Sam doesn’t say a word, just continues to smile.

 

 

Generally speaking being a homicide detective isn’t exactly the best job in the world. Between mountains of paper work and wading through the city’s shadiest characters sometimes even Dean feels like he’s being punched in the gut by the cruelty some people can muster up. He tends to try and let it slip off his skin same as the clothes he wears but of course it doesn’t always work. On those nights he tries to bury himself into something familiar, warm and reassuring. And then there’s Cas. Castiel never even asks, he usually just takes one look at Dean, closes up the shop without a word and slides into the passenger side of the Impala uncaring of their destination.

“Why?” Dean asks him at some point. He doesn’t need to explain further. Castiel cocks his head and shrugs slightly from where he’s resting against Dean’s couch.

“You’re my friend. It seems to help.” Dean nods and turns back to the absolutely inane football game on TV. After all, Castiel is right. Being able to bury himself in the familiarity of _them_ helps Dean a great deal.

 

“Dean, you need to get your ass out of bed, we got another one.” He groans as he ends the call, already half out of bed. It’s four in the morning. Why do people have to find bodies at four in the fucking morning? And “another one” never bodes well. “Another one” means the fourth lady disemboweled with precision and left to rot. It’s probably better not to eat breakfast.

 

“Same as the others, another book, quote on the front.” It’s Charlie that greets him directly at the door to the apartment complex. The change in her when on the job is always completely apparent, no twitch, no sense of mirth. If she wants to she’s completely business. Dean can appreciate that.

“Great,” he sighs, “let’s get to it.”

 

It’s a brunette this time, unseeing eyes staring at her damn white stucco ceiling. There’s a book next to her, leather bound and a neatly cut out quote taped on the cover.

“Cas would fucking hate this,” he mumbles to himself as he bends down. It’s Oscar Wilde this time. _There was purification in punishment. Not 'Forgive us our sins,' but 'Smite us for our iniquities' should be the prayer of a man to a most just God._ As usual no rhyme or reason to anything. Whatever their killer is playing at, it’s managed to elude Dean and Charlie until now. The quotes are all over the place, every genre, every country, all classics. But beside that there doesn’t seem to be any connection to what he’s actually doing and to whom. And still those damn books are their only clue worth a damn. Speaking of which … Dean sucks in a breath. That edition is gorgeous. Also old. And damn if only they could be that lucky. He’s pretty damn sure he’s seen one like it before.

“I gotta call Cas.” He’s already on his feet when Charlie holds him back (or, well, steps in front of him, she’s a bit too small to hold him anywhere).

“It’s really not a good time for that, is it?”

“The book, Charlie. _The book_.” As if that would explain everything. She lets him through anyway, looks like she at least partially understands. He presses four on his speed dial and waits impatiently. It takes Castiel four rings to pick up. Pretty damn fast considering the time.

_“Is everything alright?”_ Fuck, he sounds panicked. And sleepy. Fucking hell, Winchester, get yourself together.

“Yeah, no, it’s alright. It’s just … we’ve got this case and if we’re lucky you could make this the easiest damn serial murder in history. Can you come to the station?”

_“I’m on my way.”_

Castiel stares at the book in his hands, carefully turning it this way and that before opening the last page and closing it again. Dean watches him do it, holding his breath. It’s maybe five thirty at this point, still too damn early to legitimately be awake without coffee, but for once it just _doesn’t matter_. They’ve been trying to catch this guy for so long … it just doesn’t.

“I’ve sold this book,” Castiel finally says with certainty. Dean lets out the breath he’s been holding.

“Are you sure? Cause this is –”

“Dean.” Blue eyes lock onto his and Dean could fucking cry out in victory right now. “I mark the last page of every book I buy to sell. I sold this, perhaps two weeks ago.”

“You gotta … Can you describe the guy you sold it to?”

“Yes.” Yep, definitely victory cries building in his chest.

“Fuck, Cas …” _I could kiss you right now_ gets stuck in his throat. “I’m gonna get the profiler.” What he does do is squeeze Cas’ shoulder on his way out. From the way Castiel leans into it it might not be enough.

 

“So I was thinking … breakfast?” Castiel smiles softly and nods. It’s all too bright and sunny out for Dean to have been called out of bed by a murder and then doing the same to Cas. But when’s the weather ever dramatically appropriate outside of movies?

“I’d like tha – Dean.”

“Yeah?” When he looks up from where he’s been pointedly ignoring their hands almost brushing while walking he sees Cas looking over to the other side of the street.

“That’s him.” Castiel nods towards a man that’s going in the opposite direction, head down.

“Dude, are you sure? It’s kind of hard to see …”

“Yes. Let’s go.” And that’s when his heart jumps in his throat.

“Whoa, Whoa … no way. If you’re right that’s a goddamn killer and you’re a _civilian_.” Castiel dismisses the notion with an irritated frown.

“I can handle myself. Would you like him to get away?”

“What? No! I just – I need to call Charlie and – damn it, Cas, where are you going?!” But he’s already crossed the street and what’s Dean to do but follow? He shoots Charlie as quick a text as he can without losing sight of them before catching up. The guy’s middle-aged, long hair pulled back into a ponytail, an uneven beard adorning his face, and he’s clearly noticed them from the way his steps are speeding up. Seems logical considering he’s fucking killed four people. He starts running when he rounds the corner and Cas is off after him like a shot. Dean keeps up as best he can, but _damn_ , there’s some things Cas needs to be explaining here.

“Police! Stop!” he shouts, completely ineffectually of course, and thank god that he kept his gun. Drawing it while running isn’t the easiest thing to do but it’s worth it when the fucker runs into a dead end. At least he thinks so until he sees himself faced with a goddamn gun.

“Drop the gun,” Dean growls, holding his own steady. Cas is standing half behind him, silently. But he can see the dude’s eyes wandering to him. Oh God damn it, he should’ve not let him tag along. They’re gonna fire him. Which is fine if that bastard makes scrambled eggs of Cas’ brain. “Hey, eyes on me! Drop the gun!” He actually has the audacity to laugh.

“I don’t think so, detective,” he drawls and suddenly everything happens all at once. A shot sounds, Dean is shoved to the side, gun flying out of his hand but before he can even think to reach for it Cas is in front of him, gun in hand and firing two shots with so much fucking precision it can’t be real, one at the guy’s knee, one at the arm holding the gun. Dean can’t see but from the pain-filled shout he guesses they hit home. The second pistol is kicked towards him and when he finally gets himself together long enough to get up, Castiel is calmly holding a cursing murderer at gunpoint like he’s doing it every day. All in all it takes maybe a minute or two but he can still feel the adrenalin pumping through him. There are sirens in the distance, at least Charlie responded accordingly then. He comes to stand next to Castiel, squares his shoulders and risks a glance at him.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” he mumbles and Castiel actually chuckles in response.

“Perhaps.” Dean shouldn’t be so fucking turned on right now but he can’t seem to stop it.

 

 

Castiel’s shop is quiet except for the buzzing in Dean’s head. It’s almost serene actually, once you forget the fact that they just arrested a murderer a few hours ago. Which reminds him …

“You kind of saved my ass back there, didn’t you?” Castiel looks up from where he’s been stacking books, eyes searching, before he abandons the ones he’s yet to find a place for and comes to stand in front of Dean, just that hairs breadth too close as usual.

“He was aiming for me but yes.” Dean’s chuckle comes out slightly closer to hysterical than he’d like. Endangering himself is one thing, he does it every other day. Endangering someone _else_ …

“I guess we should be thankful for your ninja reactions then. And you need to do some damn explaining about that.” Castiel sighs, eyes leaving Dean’s but not to hide. He seems to be searching for words.

“My … family is not what you’d call normal, Dean.” He licks his lips, finding Dean’s gaze once again, and continues. “In a tight-knit community built on iron-clad rules and unwavering faith one is best to follow orders and learn what’s expected of them.”

“What, so you grew up in some kind of crazy military cult?” It sounds fictional. Hell, it sounds fucking crazy. But Castiel’s eyes show nothing but honesty.

“I wouldn’t have described it like that but yes.”

“Jesus …”

“Had very little to do with it, I’m afraid.” There’s a cynical stroke to Castiel’s mouth, a humorless smile caught in the corner of it. It seems like a can of worms Dean doesn’t want to open, not yet, not until Castiel does so himself.

“So how come you’re …?” he makes a gesture encompassing the room. Castiel’s eyes soften.

“When we were younger Gabriel left often, but he’d always come back. He’d tell me stories … and he’d bring back books. The last time he took me with him.” It sounds like that’s all Castiel’s going to say on the subject for the moment, so Dean just gives him an easy smile.

“Well, I’m glad he did.”

“So am I.” Castiel’s eyes are unreadable but Dean can feel something build up, something that’s threatening to overwhelm them. He hopes it’s good. And that’s when Castiel kisses him. Between his brain short circuiting and then kicking into overdrive he can just grasp the thought that yes, this _is_ good. Castiel is drawing back just a bit, like he wants to step back, and that just won’t do. Instincts finally kicking in Dean grasps him firmly around the waist and hauls him back in, kissing him back with all that he’s got and using Castiel’s small surprised gasp to his advantage. He tangles one hand into Castiel’s hair and deepens the kiss easily, only lets him go again when the need for air proves too insistent to ignore. Resting his head against Castiel’s he ineffectually tries to calm the beating of his heart.

“Where’d that come from?” he finally asks and Castiel sighs, seemingly put-upon, but he’s smiling.

“Dean, I’ve been waiting for you to kiss me for almost a year now. I believe today showed that it’s sometimes advisable for me to take charge.” Dean chuckles, draws him into another kiss, slow and sweet.

“Oh, you can take charge all you want.”

“Then I suggest you go back to work now and we’ll have dinner tonight. And afterwards I’d like to go home with you.” The low tone of Castiel’s voice shoots straight to Dean’s dick, makes him steal another kiss. God, Castiel is right though, he needs to get some work done.

“I’ll be back at seven.”

 

 

Somewhere between leaving Cas and driving back to the shop the crippling thought that _he’s gonna ruin this somehow_ strikes him. God, he’s spend the better part of a year not giving into this, telling himself that Castiel is important and he’ll ruin everything the moment he grows weak and now … now he can’t do anything to stop the downward spiral if it happens. Jesus, he’s in love with Cas but he’s never been able to hold onto a relationship. Too clingy, not invested enough, somehow he always manages to fuck up and Castiel … Castiel is standing in front of his little bookshop, rumpled as ever but with bright eyes and he’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to Dean.

“I’m so fucking scared I’ll ruin this and you’ll leave me,” he says before Castiel even has the passenger door closed. It comes out in a rush of breath followed by shocked, mortified silence. Not really what he’d meant to say, that’s for sure. Castiel, because he’s Castiel, doesn’t quite climb into Dean’s lap but he gets as close as he can and stares into Dean’s eyes.

“You won’t,” he simply replies. As if it’s as simple as that. As if months of friendship automatically mean they’ll be compatible in this way too. As if life couldn’t kick both their asses at some point. “I want you, and I want to be in a relationship with you.”

“Okay.” And, somehow, it is.

 

“Are you sure? I mean, we don’t have to …” Turns out when you start dating your best friend things don’t suddenly change. Especially if you have the same dinner date you’ve essentially had a billion times before only with added flirting. That is, until you come to your door and are suddenly very unsure about everything but at the same time would like to get him naked asap. Apparently Castiel makes Dean regress back to his teenager self. Just great.

“Dean, if you don’t let me touch you right _now_ I don’t know what I’ll do.” The words, spoken against his lips, send a shiver through him. He’s grabbed Castiel and dragged him inside before he can think of another reason to be uncertain. Castiel is warm and pliant against him, familiar with the space around them so that it takes him no time to get them out of their jackets and shoes and find their way upstairs and to Dean’s bedroom. Dean has dreamed about this so many times (ignored the dreams about it even more) but he’s never quite expected Castiel to be at the same time yielding and pushing, laughing softly when he gets tangled in his own sweater vest, and just _there_. This is real and it’s going to be better than anything Dean could ever have dreamt up. He waits until Castiel has the vest over his head before he can’t help himself anymore and draws him back in for another lingering kiss. God, how has he been able to stop himself from doing this for so long? The stubble on Castiel’s jaw is rough against his skin when he moves on to his neck, nipping at his pulse point and drawing a soft moan from him before his fingers find the buttons of the shirt Castiel is still wearing and make quick work of them. Lean, muscled flesh exposed to his touch distracts him from doing much else but Castiel is quick to divest himself of the shirt and trying to do the same with Dean’s. They fall onto the bed a tangle of half-undressed limbs and soft noises, Castiel finding his place on top of Dean easily. The look of pure adoration in his eyes when he looks down would be too much for Dean in any other circumstance but right now it just makes him want.

“I’ve wanted you so long.”

“Yeah?” Dean smiles, one hand cradling the back of Castiel’s neck, drawing his head down. “Now you have me, what are you gonna do?” The way Castiel suddenly thrusts their groins together is as unexpected as it is hot. Dean’s groan in response gets cut off by Castiel’s tongue.

“I have a few ideas.” Castiel says it like a confession, like a secret only shared between them and Dean feels it like a dizzying wave coursing through him. He watches as Castiel divests himself of the rest of his clothes before he does the same to Dean. The feeling of heated skin on skin is like a revelation, like the best drug he’s ever tried, and he can’t help himself. He draws Cas down into another heated battle of tongues, drives his hips up in almost desperate search of friction, relishes in the moan it draws out of Castiel. The rhythm they set is just somewhere between too much and not enough, feels delicious and agonizing at the same time. If he had any mind for it he’d try for finesse, try to do more than just desperately rutting them together like horny teenagers but he’s intoxicated by it all, by taste and smell and feeling and everything that is Castiel. Castiel seems to be more capable of thinking about _something_ right now.

“I want you inside me,” he says between pants and kisses and Dean moans in response.

“Bedside table,” is all he gets out but Cas seems to understand anyhow, reaching over and grabbing the bottle of lube stashed in the drawer. Dean doesn’t protest when he lubes his own fingers up and sets to stretching himself. God, he’s gorgeous like this, head thrown back and throat bared as little gasps and moans escape from between his lips. He can’t resist the stretch of skin, relishes in how Castiel leans into his lips when he starts placing kisses. His hand follows Castiel’s arm to where he has three fingers pumping into himself. Castiel sighs, lets Dean replace his fingers with his own, and kisses him again, until Dean feels like he’ll burst any moment now, until Castiel’s fingers close around his cock, lube it up and guide it inside him. It’s all he can do to hold on as he finds himself slowly surrounded by wonderful tight heat, Castiel bottoming out and giving himself a moment to adjust before starting an uneven rhythm that only grows more erratic as they go on. Dean wishes he had the patience to spread Castiel out on the sheets, tease him until they both went crazy, but this is perfect, this is wonderful. This is Castiel clutching at his shoulders desperately, is him hiding his face in Castiel’s neck, is being surrounding and surrounding by nothing but Castiel and he can’t hold on, he can’t. He can feel Castiel come all over his hand in the miniscule space between them, can feel the muscles around him tighten and that’s it, show’s over. He comes, his cry muffled in Castiel’s neck. It takes them a moment to disentangle themselves, find it with themselves to clean up, and even then it doesn’t take long before They’re once again securely wrapped around each other, unable to discern where one begins and the other ends. He presses kisses into Castiel’s skin until he feels sleep drag him down, warm and heavy and secure in the knowledge that when he wakes up this won’t just be a fleeting dream.

 

 

When Dean wakes up Castiel is comfortably sitting next to him and reading. He takes him in for a moment, bent over a book that might be his but is probably Dean’s, illuminated by the sun and pretty damn serene. When he finally sits up he goes to kiss Castiel’s naked shoulder first.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles into the skin, “What’re you reading?” Castiel doesn’t even look up but Dean can see a smile playing around his lips. Instead of an answer he starts reading aloud.

“This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.” Like he doesn’t even question that Dean will know which book it is. Like he knows that his battered copy of _On the Road_ has been living almost as long as _Cat’s Cradle_ , in backpacks and suitcases, the backseat of the Impala and motel room after motel room because sometimes you need to find solace in people that are just as lost as you, even if it’s only in their words.  Dean kisses him again, on the lips this time, drags him back down into the sheets and the battered paperback gets lost somewhere underneath the blankets as he focusses on drawing moans out of Castiel’s throat instead. He whispers ‘I love you’ into Castiel’s skin that morning, fears he might catch it but also hopes that maybe he will, he’s never been the most eloquent of men. But somehow it still works between them. Somehow they don’t always need words. And if he says ‘I love you’ then Castiel says ‘Yes’ with limbs and kisses, with breathy moans and fluttering eyelashes and it’s enough. They can leave the words to the more eloquent people for now, they’d be useless right here anyway.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Note that this was mindless self-indulgence. I don't necessarily share Cas' view on the trade paperback, but I know quite a few people who do seeing as I study book studies. ;) What else ... if this was the most boring thing you've ever read, I apologize dearly, but I think it's quite obvious my action writing skills are a lot poorer than my fluff writing skills.


End file.
